_August 12th._
It is a long time since I opened this diary, for I have grown out of the
habit of writing, and it is difficult to get into it again.
Mr Greaves died the very night of his seizure, and immediately after
his funeral Mrs Greaves collapsed and has been an invalid ever since.
It seemed as if she had kept up to the very limit of her endurance, for
as soon as the strain was over her nerves gave way in a rush, and
instead of the gentle, self-controlled creature which she has been all
her life, she is now just a bundle of fancies, tears and repinings. It
is hard on Rachel, but she bears it like an angel, and is always patient
and amiable. I wondered at first if she and Will would marry soon and
take Mrs Greaves to live with them; I asked Rachel about it one day
when we were having a quiet chat, and she answered quite openly:
"Will wished it. He thought he could help me to cheer mother, but she
won't hear of it for the next twelve months at least, and, of course, I
must do as she prefers. We have waited so long that another year cannot
make much difference."
I wondered if Will were of the same opinion, but did not dare to ask
him. As I said before, he avoids me nowadays and does not seem to care
to talk to me alone. Perhaps it is better so, but I can't help being
sorry. I have wondered sometimes if the dull, aching feeling which I
have when he passes me by is anything like what poor Wallace Forbes felt
about me. If it is, I am even more sorry for Wallace than before. Of
course, I am not in love with Will--I couldn't be, for he is engaged to
Rachel, and I have known it from the first, but I can't help thinking
about him, and watching for him, and feeling happy if he comes, and
wretched if he stays away. And I know his face by heart and just how it
looks on every occasion. His eyes don't twinkle nearly so much as they
did; he is graver altogether, except sometimes when I have a mad mood
and set myself to make him frisky too. I can always succeed, but I
don't try often, for I fancy Rachel doesn't like it. She can't frisk
herself, poor dear, and it must feel horrid to feel left out in the cold
by your very own _fiance_. I should hate it myself.
At the beginning of this month I had a great treat. Lorna came to stay
with me for three days. She was visiting a friend twenty miles off, and
came here in the middle of her visit just for that short time, so that
there need be no necessity for Wallace to know anything about it. Of
course, she came with her parents' consent and approval, and oh, how
thankful I was to see her and to look upon her coming as a sign that
they were beginning to forgive me. Of course we talked shoals about
Wallace, for I just longed to know how he was faring.
"My dear, it was awful after you left--positively awful!" Lorna said.
"Wallace went about looking like a ghost, and mother cried, and father
was worried to death. Wallace declared at first that he would go
abroad, but father told him that it was cowardly to throw up his work
for the sake of a disappointment, however bitter, and mother asked if he
really cared so little for his parents that he could forsake them in
their old age for the sake of a girl whom he had only known a month. He
gave way at last, as I knew he would, and set to work harder than ever.
He was very brave, poor old boy, and never broke down nor made any fuss,
but he was so silent! You would not have known him. He never seemed to
laugh, nor to joke, nor take any interest in what was going on, and the
whole winter long he never once entered my little den, where we had had
such happy times. I suppose it reminded him too much of you. This
spring, however, he has been brighter. I insisted on his taking me to
the tennis club as usual, and though he went at first for my sake he
enjoys it now for his own. We meet so many friends, and he can't help
being happy out in the sunshine with a lot of happy boys and girls all
round. He was quite keen about the tournament, and had such a pretty
partner. He always walked home with her after the matches."
"How nice!" I said, and tried to be pleased and relieved, and succeeded
only in feeling irritated and rubbed the wrong way. How mean it sounds!
How selfish, and small, and contemptible! I just intend to _make_
myself feel glad, and to hope that Wallace may see more and more of that
pretty girl, and like her far better than me, and be right down thankful
that I refused him. So now, Una Sackville, you know what is expected of
you!
Vere liked Lorna, and was amused to see us frisking about together. The
afternoon before Lorna left we were chasing each other round the room in
some mad freak when, turning towards Vere's couch, I thought I saw her
head raised an inch or so from the pillow in her effort to follow our
movements. My heart gave a great thud of excitement, but I couldn't be
sure, so I took no notice, but took care to retire still further into
the corner. Then I looked round again, and, yes! it was perfectly true,
her head was a good three inches from the couch, and she was smiling all
the time, evidently quite free from pain.
"Oh, Vere!" I cried; "oh, darling, darling Vere!" and suddenly the
tears rolled down my cheeks, and I trembled so that I could hardly
stand. Lorna could not think what had happened, neither could Vere
herself, and I tried hard to calm myself so as not to excite her too
much.
"You raised your head, Vere! Oh, ever so high you raised it! You were
watching us, and forgot all about yourself, and it didn't hurt you a
bit--you smiled all the time. Try again if you don't believe me--try,
darling. You can do it, if you like!"
Her breath came short with nervousness and agitation, but she clenched
her hands and with a sudden effort her head and neck lifted themselves
one, two, a good three or four inches from their support. Oh, her face!
The sight of it at that moment was almost enough to make up for those
long months of anxiety. It was illuminated; it shone! All the weary
lines and hollows disappeared, the colour rushed to her cheeks; it was
the old, lovely, radiant Vere, whom we had thought never to see again.
I can't describe what we did next. Mother came in and cried, father
came in and clapped his hands, and asked mother what on earth she meant
by crying, while the tears were rolling down his own dear old nose in
the most barefaced manner all the time. I danced about the house and
kissed everyone I met, and the servants cried and laughed, and the old
family doctor was sent for and came in beaming and rubbing his hands
with delight. He said it was a wonderful improvement, and the best
possible augury of complete recovery, and that now the first step had
been taken we could look forward to continuous improvement.
Oh, how happy we were! I don't think any of us slept much that night;
we just lay awake and thanked God, and gloated over the glad news. All
the next day Vere's face shone with the same wonderful incredulous joy.
Hope had been very nearly dead for the last few months, and the sudden
change from despair to practical certainty was too great to realise. It
seemed as if she did not know how to be thankful enough. She said to me
once--
"I am going to get well, Babs, but I must never forget this experience!
As long as I live I shall keep this couch in my bedroom, and when I have
been selfish and worldly I shall lay down straight on my back as I have
done all these months and stay there for an hour or two, just to make
myself remember how much I have been spared, and how humble I ought to
be. And if you ever see me forgetting and going back to the old
thoughtless ways, you must remind me, Babs; you must speak straight out
and stop me in time. I want to look back on this illness and feel that
it has been the turning-point in my life."